Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
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"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
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A diluted blue stretches above, unmarked by even a single cloud, and lit bright by the sun that has reached its apex, hanging like a glowing pendulum, fire white by the power of Helios. Its lit rays extend like curious fingers, wrapping around everything it can reach, whether it be a bird that sails the sky, or the peak of a tree as it rustles in the wind.
It drenches the ground below, seizing every blade of grass that ripples in the slight breeze, humming as they sway. It caresses the curve of exposed metal, reflecting a blinding light that is torture to let your corneas rest upon. It marks the surface of every cream petal that is scattered thoughtfully down the porcelain, marble marked isle which I stand at the beginning of. I will walk down it in a days' time.
The stone paving runs between the extensive seating – uniform rows of chairs on either side, rose gold skeletons cushioned a perfect white to match the ribbon that ties against the back rest, tails of the bow trailing to the floor. All of them look towards the front, where proudly stands a raised platform surrounded with the most exquisite foliage; rich emerald greens with bowing leaves, blossoming flowers of creams and paled pinks that whisper against the floor the droop towards. Interspersed, ivy crawls along the untouched spaces of the walls, though trimmed back neatly as to not invade the stage.
On which, stands a particular gazebo – unroofed, to let the sun bleed in. It is fashioned from thick, rose gold columns that act as strong, unrelenting spines, connected and knotted with a fine wiring, and at the very top, stretches of cross hatched white trellising. On this, flowers are strung, thriving as they wrap around the feature, either draping towards the floor, or curling upwards and seeking the sun that feeds them. They blossom in spectacular whites, near blinding against the dark leaves that rest among them, and will match the dress I am to wear beneath them while hand in hand with Eason, speaking vows of fluent lies.
The ballroom has been transformed in aid of the reception. The room seems larger, just by the stretch of white tulle that runs along the ceiling, covering the light where the chandelier once sat. It has been removed – allegedly ghastly against the style that has been tirelessly strived to achieve. Instead, for lighting, strips of subtle string lights are adorned to the ceiling, one wall to the next, and when the night impends, it looks as though the presence of a thousand fireflies has been requested.
Similar lights trail down the walls, over the drapes that shield the windows, and some even trimming the skeleton of the chairs. Eight surround a circular table, swathed in a rich satin cloth, on which the cutlery and china already lay waiting, glasses buffed and shined, all surround a bouquet of flowers that sit as an accent in the center. These tables run the length of the room, easily sitting two hundred guests, which I never asked for, and still do not desire. An empty space remains at the forefront of the room – to the left, a string quartet will play, and to the right, guests will dance. It is beautiful, but it only makes me want to cry.
The dress I wear, a loose lace with a low neck and fluttering arms, skims the floor as I escape the room in a hurry, pleading time to stand still, so the day comes no closer. My hair blows behind me like a cape, caught by the air I split as I barrel down the corridors, wanting out. Of this Manor, of this marriage, of this life I am subjected to. I cannot even cry anymore – the reserves of tear are exhausted, and so now, all I feel is the further fracturing of my heart, the nausea that spills in my stomach despite is lacking contents, and my limbs, that ache with fatigue, deprived of the energy they desperately require.
